Memories
by LullabyForTheLost
Summary: Near was nothing if not for his mind. Dark, implied self-mutilation.


Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, I do however own the poem and story

Warnings/Notes: IMPORTANT! Graphic in a grotesque way, I believe that due to indication in the manga Near, Matt, and Mello are of British decent. This will explain some of my logic.

Another bond that connects him to his will to live has snapped; how troublesome that has proved to be. He thinks back to what he heard girls at Whammy's call them, 'heartstrings' perhaps? A long and nimble finger twists it's way around a lock of white hair in frustration he wishes not to show or otherwise address. A picture of L emblazoned in his mind, his black hair lying flat and wet against him as he looks outdoors from which he just came for no reason in particular, comes to Near's mind. He blinks hard and the image from a memory growing fuzzy with the slow decay of time dissolves into another. A blonde boy stands at the bottom of a familiar stair well. He and the shaded figure are locked in a stare, there is dead silence for a few moments until the clock, as it always does in this memory, strikes twelve midnight and the bells of a nearby church chime. Rain could be heard beating down harshly on the roof and window pains of the orphanage as Mello lifts his head. Near does not draw back when his dark eyes gaze upon a bloodied face, one that doesn't belong.

The boy opens his eyes, staring out into the darkness that surrounds him. Sighing silently he moves to finger his new toy though he cannot see it.

In a case such as Kira's, which two weeks previous had come to a close, and in many others, Near has a culprit pinned down in three strikes, three mistakes. How ironic it was now that his mind could not switch gears.

_Memories-_

Contenting as the poison in your ear

The song of words you can't take back

Soothing as the warmth of your blood

Dripping stark red in the black

He fingers the blade's edge gingerly as it glistens in the darkness. L's name drifts through his mind, and quietly, holding the toy to his forearm, he mutters, "Strike one."

_Memories-_

_ As comforting as comatose_

_ A bullet in the gun_

_ That fuels your flirtation with suicide_

_Which is now for more than fun. _

Mello's face comes into mind and Near could swear he hears his rival's voice ring out into tormenting silence, 'I want to be the best', he says. As the boy, who in Near's mind stands before him at sixteen with a bar of chocolate in his hand lets a broken piece of the sweet fall without notice, Near lets it take the place of the drop of the blood that falls down his arm.

He makes another cut over the first and slightly louder murmurs, "Strike two."

_Memories-_

_The tragic end to a tortured mind_

_The demise which once brought salvation_

_The bait for a jaded soul_

_Which in the end ensures starvation_

The blade cuts deeper, but not in an area where it would be fatal. The last few minutes of the Kira investigation commence to play through his mind in a haze. His own words, "Yagami Light, there is no sense in denying it now. 'It's my win, Near' might as well have been a confession…" resound as irony. He lets his head move to the side, the arm his toy has chosen as a canvas dropping straight down, letting his fingers, which were once fondling his hair, fall to the cushioned sheets of the bed he sits on. The crimson liquid trails down his arm but he pays it no mind.

The only thing that gave him purpose along with the only two people with which he had a relationship that could possible ignite feelings within him were non-existent now. He realizes that in a sense, Kira had indeed won. He no longer wonders what dying would be like, nor does he contemplate whether living is a crueler fate than death. He understands as he laughs bitterly one last time that inside he is already dead.

Blood pours from flesh wounds he hastily makes. His eyes close to the false sense of security that are words long passed said. With his face buried into his pillow, blood trailing down the corner of his mouth he laughs. Such a display of emotion didn't suite him, he knew. His consciousness dwindles quickly like the wick on a candle and he mouths out into silence.

"Strike three."

* * *

The next time his eyes open to gaze upon the beauty of his cursed life it is when they are fighting with the rosetta light bleeding through the curtains that hang on the window above his bed. The smell of dried blood and decaying flesh wafts through the room as he sits up and pulls an unbuttoned white sleeve down over the scabbing wounds.

He scowls for a moment, being the exception to even his own rule was troublesome. Too troublesome to bother to think on any longer than he already had.

He stands up telling himself as the harshly cold ground brings back a familiar yet dull pain in the bottoms of his feet that no mind of a genius is pure. He dresses himself properly and breaks his newest toy. The blade shattering into many pieces, which scatter across the floor after impacting hard with the wall.

He was stronger than this, he lived for a reason, he would carry on for a reason, even if it was not the same as the one behind the purpose he had once lived to serve. He tells himself he was given the gift of a brilliant mind, and though it is human nature, he must not choose to forsake that. He closes the door one last on the memories of L, Mello, and Kira, of all the things, which before fueled him to be great for now all that had come of them were memories.

He felt a tug at his chest as he banished the moments in time from his recollection.

Though most were nothing without thoughts and sentiments of those people and things they loved, Nate Rivers was nothing if not for his mind.

Memories-

_The chiseled words on a stone slate_

_ The dreams beyond one's reach_

_ The walls built strong which in war_

_Only common sense may breech._

_Memories-_

_Foolish moments cherished in blindness_

_That remind one of the desire-_

_Of the pain, the longing, the need they felt_

_To pay heed the words of a liar._


End file.
